isten dreamily to the falling rain sifting softly through the leafless
trees, and answering to the faint sighing of the autumn wind. Morris
enjoyed it very much, and but for the green glasses he still wore would
have looked and appeared like his former self as he sat in his armchair,
now holding the skein of yarn which Aunt Betsy wound, now talking with
the deacon of the probable exchange of all the prisoners, a theme which
quickened Helen's pulse and sent the blood to her pale cheeks, and again
standing by Katy as she played his favorite airs, his rich bass voice
mingling with hers and Helen's, the three making finer music, Aunt Betsy
said, than that for which she paid two dollars at the playhouse.

He did not often address Katy directly, but he knew each time she moved,
and watched every varying expression of her face, feeling a kind of pity
for her, when without appearing to do so intentionally, the family, one
by one, stole from the room--Uncle Ephraim and Aunt Hannah without any
excuse; Aunt Betsy to raise the cakes for breakfast; Mrs. Lennox to
wind the clock, and Helen to find a book for which Morris had asked.

Katy might not have thought strange of their departure were it not that
neither one came back again, and after the lapse of ten minutes or more
she felt convinced that she had purposely been left alone with Morris.

The weather and the family had conspired against her, but after one
throb of fear she resolved to brave the difficulty and meet whatever
might happen as became a woman of twenty-three, and a widow, too. She
knew Morris was regarding her intently as she fashioned into shape the
coarse wool sock, intended for some soldier, and she could almost hear
her heart beat in the silence which fell between them ere Morris said to
her, in a tone which reassured her at once:

"And so you told me a falsehood the other day, and your conscience has
troubled you ever since?"

"Yes, Morris," and Katy dropped her stitch as she replied. "Yes; that
is, I told you I was sorry that you ever loved me, which was not exactly
true, for, after I knew you did, I was happier than before."

Her words implied a knowledge of his love previous to that night at
Linwood when he had himself confessed it, and he said to her,
inquiringly:

"You knew it then before I told you?"

"From Wilford--yes," Katy faltered, a tear dropping on her cheek as she
recalled the circumstances of Wilford's telling her.

"I understand now why